


Strange Winds Surround Us

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, also lexa is a house im not kidding, monroe and clarke are sisters, monroe is a cat, so get psyched for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Monty said you got a cat and named it Monroe,” he shakes his head. “That’s weird even for you guys.”</p><p>“So your first thought was, she must have been turned into a cat?” Bellamy asks, mildly amused by the whole situation. </p><p>Wells shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”</p><p>“Not really,” Monroe says.</p><p> </p><p>In which, Raven learns a lesson about love, Monroe learns about happiness, and Clarke comes along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Winds Surround Us

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I've been awol, I was at my grandma's house in the middle of nowhere, where satellites and cell service do not exist.

Monroe is cursed on a Wednesday morning. She doesn’t tell Clarke until after five, partly because she doesn’t want to inconvenience her older sister, and partly because she’s a little hopeful it’ll just go away on its own.

In the meantime, she does a lot of lounging on the kitchen table, in the windowsill, and just generally lying about. Mostly in the sun. Sometimes she chases a few spiders, and once she eats one because she can’t really stop herself. It doesn’t really taste like much, but she knows the texture will haunt her for days.

Finally, Clarke comes home to their apartment, sees Monroe, and pauses. Then she calls out, “Money, the landlady said no pets!”

Monroe gives a last stretch, licks the spider leg off her whiskers, and says, “She’ll have to make an exception, I guess.”

Clarke stares at the cat a little forcefully, and Monroe fights the urge to hiss. “Money,” she shouts. “Did you seriously steal a cat just to fuck with me?”

Monroe tries to scoff, but it comes out as more of a yowl. “Why would I _steal_ a cat when I could just take one from that homeless lady at Walmart?”

Clarke pauses. “Please tell me you didn’t take a Walmart cat just to fuck with me. The landlady was very clear.”

“Don’t you dare take me to the shelter, Clarke,” Monroe warns. “I will escape and scratch you in your sleep. I’ll throw up on your bed. I’m a cat now, I can do that.” She likes to think her sudden bitter attitude was just a side effect of the curse.

Clarke collapses into the recliner. “You’re a cat,” she breathes. “My sister’s a cat.” She blinks and then frowns. “A _black cat_.”

Monroe hopes her sister isn’t broken. She was sort of depending on her, and her opposable thumbs.

“Color doesn’t matter, Clarke,” she snaps. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts—and my insides are currently feline, so hurry up and fix it.”

“ _Me_?” Clarke asks, irritated. “What the hell am _I_ supposed to do about it?” She pauses. “Did you have a class today?”

Monroe tries to roll her eyes—she’s pretty sure it didn’t hit its mark, but. “Sorry, college was literally the last thing on my mind since _I was turned into a household pet_.”

Clarke rolls her eyes back. “What happened, anyway?”

“Good to know your priorities.”

“Just answer the question, Monroe.”

“I don’t know,” Monroe admits. “One minute, I was pouring my cereal, and the next I had four paws and a spider in my mouth.” She shudders.

Clarke looks thoughtful. “You ate a spider?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” Clarke shrugs. “Do you remember anything about the change itself?” she asks, bringing up Google on her phone. Monroe jumps up to perch on her shoulder, and subtly chew on her hair.

Clarke types in _my sister is a black cat what to do_ , and the first ten hits involve lots of cute Youtube videos of kittens, and one extremely weird fetish site.

“Try, _girl turns into black cat during breakfast,_ ” Monroe offers. Clarke searches it, and comes up with three new videos and an even weirder porn site.

“This is ridiculous,” Clarke decides hotly—she always gets aggravated when she doesn’t understand something. “Let’s retrace your steps.”

“Alright,” Monroe says doubtfully, hopping down to the ground. She feels much lighter, and earlier she jumped from one counter to the other, which was like eight feet, so. She’s kind of a badass now.

A tiny, furry badass that likes cuddles, but.

She leads Clarke to her unmade bed, and Clarke only scrunches her nose a little at the messy room. Monroe huffs and ignores her. She can smell a cricket in here somewhere, and it’s hard not to get distracted.

“I woke up,” she announces. “And then went to go pee.” She bounds off towards the bathroom while Clarke follows slowly.

“Riveting,” she deadpans. Monroe ignores her because she’s fucking mature.

“Then I brushed my teeth and shaved my eyebrows.” She’s recently experimented in the shaved-eyebrows look, and she likes it. She eyes her cat-self in the mirror and internally frowns. She totally has cat eyebrows.

“Let’s skip the shower and tampon change,” Clarke suggests. “What happened when you reached the kitchen?”

“I made us both coffee,” Monroe says, making her way across the apartment. She’s faster as a cat, but she also has longer to go. She leaps onto the counter and tries not to seem smug about it, but she’s pretty sure she fails. Cats are always smug. “But you weren’t here,” she accuses.

“Sorry,” Clarke says, seeming appropriately guilty. “I grabbed breakfast with some nurses after the late shift.”

“Whatever,” Monroe shrugs, sauntering across the granite. She’s pretty sure both coffees are cold by now, but she still laps a little at her mug. It’s so terrible her whiskers twitch. Clarke watches, amused.

“And then you poured your cereal?” she presses, glancing at the spilled Frosted Mini Wheat’s on the floor. Monroe bats at a few with her paw.

“Yeah,” she nods. “And then—” she looks down at herself pointedly.

“You’re bad luck now,” Clarke says sadly. “I think I’ll have to give you away.”

Monroe cuts her eyes at her. “You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses.

“Maybe the Walmart lady will take you,” Clarke muses.

“I will _not_ be a Walmart cat,” Monroe declares hotly. “That box is always falling apart, and there are definitely unfixed Toms in that box, Clarke. I will get cat-raped.”

Clarke flinches. “Okay,” she concedes. “You’re right—I can’t let you get raped by some wannabe Thomas O’Malleys.”

“Not everybody wants to be a cat,” Monroe decides. “I’ve tried it. I’m ready to turn back. I miss the internet.”

“Not even a full day,” Clarke shakes her head. “And already in social network-withdrawal.”

“And Pinterest,” Monroe adds sadly.

“You’re terrible at this,” Clarke declares. Monroe glares at her, and hacks up a wad of phlegm and fur, and some spider legs she’s pretty sure. Clarke looks at her sister, disgusted. Monroe tries not to seem too pleased with herself.

“You’ll have to clean that,” she points out. “I don’t have any thumbs.”

“You’re going to the shelter,” Clarke shoots back, snatching up a paper towel. “And I won’t feel even a little bit bad.”

Clarke dials Monroe’s school for her, so she can fake sick and beg off for the next few days. It’s not a lot of time to discover a cure, but she has faith in her sister.

That, and she’s not actually sure how many absences her professors will allow. Hopefully more than five.

Clarke spends most of her time either at the library, or browsing the internet for answers. Their mom calls once or twice during the week, but they’re able to keep it short and convincing. Monroe still mostly _sounds_ human. Sometimes she catches herself starting to purr, when Clarke absently scratches behind her ear, but.

Eventually she starts just bringing reference books home to read. “The librarian’s a dick,” she explains, with a little more venom than necessary. Monroe wants to ask, but she’s a little preoccupied with the window blind’s drawstring.

She finds that she absolutely _hates_ cat food. “I don’t understand how they eat this,” she spits, glaring at the brown pellets. “It’s vomit. Brittle, chalky vomit that’s hard to chew.”

“Most cats don’t know any better,” Clarke explains. “And your intestines can’t handle people food right now. So, vomit it is. Bon apatite!”

“I hate you,” Monroe growls around a mouthful. She gags as she swallows. Clarke tries not to laugh.

“Okay,” Clarke sighs, sliding into a chair. Monroe looks up from her bowl—Clarke’s been buying her tuna recently, to curb her complaining. It works. “I haven’t found any sort of cure, or even an explanation, really,” she trails off, staring at Monroe and biting her lip nervously.

“But?” Monroe presses. She tries not to get her hopes up, but she’s been pooping in a box for the last two days, so it’s kind of hard.

“But,” Clarke continues, “I found a chatroom.”

Monroe blinks slowly. “A chatroom,” she echoes. Clarke nods, pulling it up on her phone.

“People talking about curses,” she explains, pushing the screen so Monroe can see. “Sort of like yours. None of them are _got turned into a cat_ , but. Some of the tips are kind of helpful. Like, _MerMechanic03_ , she lost her voice, so she programmed Siri to talk for her. And, _VulcanOne_. He has some sort of King Midas variant, where he burns what he touches, so he just wears wet gloves like, all the time.”

Monroe scrolls through the thread with her nose as Clarke speaks. There are seven users in the conversation, each with a different ailment, some—like _5linc_ , who looks so monstrous he can’t leave his house—more magical than others. The post itself is several months old, but it’s the closest they’ve come to anything useful.

The last post, from _d3adgurl2_ , is an invitation to speak together in person, and their house address. Monroe looks up to find Clarke already on GoogleMaps. “It’s only fourteen minutes away,” she says, holding up Monroe’s phone.

Monroe nods, licking the last of the tuna from her lips. “Let’s go.”

The house itself is at the end of a peninsula, the last in the cul-de-sac. It’s set off a little from the other homes, almost as if it’s cursed, itself. Most of the windows are closed off by thick curtains, and the door is solid wood. The house is an elegant Victorian, with the kind of wear that makes it hard to tell its age. The lawn is impeccably trimmed, with neat rows of dark roses lined up along the front porch, and ivy curled up along the sides. The mailbox reads _Blake_.

“It looks like something out of the Addam’s Family,” Monroe mutters, hunching lower in Clarke’s lap as she parks.

“I’m sure it’s just for aesthetic,” Clarke says, scooping her sister/cat and stepping outside. She sets Monroe down because carrying her is condescending for both of them, and they march up to the front door side by side.

There’s a handmade sign, with impeccable cursive, tacked to the wood, reading: _Would any and all salespeople, religion promoters, and Girl Scouts please leave immediately._ Underneath, someone else has scrawled: _unless you have thin mints, then ring doorbell_

“Because that’s not suspicious,” Monroe grumbles. Clarke shrugs and rings the bell.

A voice—deep enough to be male, but Monroe doesn’t like to assume these things—calls out from inside, “Read the sign on the door!”

“We’re not salespeople,” Clarke calls back. “Or religious. Or Girl Scouts.”

“But we could have Thin Mints, if it’ll get us in,” Monroe adds. Clarke looks down at her, but Monroe only yawns and sits back on her haunches, like any good cat would. She contemplates grooming herself, but decides it’s a little personal for public.

Plus, she thinks it’s probably weird that she likes doing it so much. Weirder than her situation already is, anyway.

The door clicks and swings open, though the hallway is empty. Clarke steps in cautiously, and Monroe follows only a little behind. She wants to be able to sprint out at a moment’s notice—she’ll worry about Clarke from a safe distance, after.

“Dammit, Lexa,” someone growls, and they look up to find an irritated man standing at the top of the staircase. He looks older than them, but only a little, with a bad case of bedhead. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, with dirty socks and a long sleeved Henley, and looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. He glares down at them.

“What do you want?” he demands.

“I’m Clarke,” Clarke says. She points to Monroe. “This is Monroe.”

“Great,” the man deadpans. “ _What do you want_?”

Monroe huffs, but they both ignore her and Clarke answers, staring at him a little too deliberately. “We found a chatroom with this address. We thought you might be able to help us.”

The man pauses to study them, resting his gaze on Monroe. His eyes are unsettlingly hot, and Monroe looks away. “Help with what, exactly?”

Clarke glances down to Monroe pointedly. They haven’t really done this, before—Clarke’s the only one Monroe has spoken to directly as a cat. All of her instincts are telling her to run, but she bites them back. “With _this_ ,” she says loudly. His eyes flash smugly, like he’s just won a bet. “I used to be human,” she adds, in case he’d misunderstood.

He nods, making his way down to him. “I’m Bellamy,” he says. “You were right, we can—”

“ _You_!” Clarke declares, looking at Bellamy with wide eyes, a little angrily. “The library asshole!”

Bellamy stops mid-step and squints at her, before smirking. “Ah, the princess.” Clarke huffs, and he grins widely.

Monroe glances between the two. “I hate to interrupt this touching reunion,” she says wryly—she’s not used to flustered Clarke. It’s great, and she wants to see it every day, but. Priorities. “But I’m still a cat.”

Bellamy spares a glance for Monroe before turning back to Clarke with a frown. “This was why you were taking notes on fairy tales?”

Clarke flushes hotly. It’s the fucking _best_. “I thought they might help,” she defends, petulantly. Bellamy grins down at the floor for a moment before schooling his expression.

“Yeah, no, I get it,” he nods, turning back to Monroe. “So, who’d you piss off lately?”

Monroe blinks stupidly. Beneath her, the floorboards shake a little, and she jumps about five feet in the air. Clarke looks mildly at her feet, while Bellamy just chuckles, the ass.

“Don’t worry,” he waves a hand. “That’s just Lexa.” He pauses and then adds, “The house,” like that’ll explain it.

“The house,” Clarke echoes. Monroe bats at the floor with a paw, and it _hums_ back at her.

“The house,” Bellamy nods. “Curses are weird,” he shrugs, and well. They can’t really argue with that.

“I haven’t pissed anyone off,” Monroe blurts, and Bellamy looks back at her with a raised brow.

“Not even a little?” he pushes. “About anything. Rival sports teams, dissed their favorite movie, turned some dick down at the bar.”

“She’s nineteen,” Clarke says. “She can’t drink.”

Bellamy looks at Monroe with an unimpressed look that says _Seriously?_

Monroe gives him one that says _Not a fucking word_. He shrugs and lets it drop.

“Well, that’s why most of us are here,” he explains. “Made someone angry, and they turned out to be a witch. It’s not that hard; anyone can find some curse on the internet, print out a picture and say some Latin. Divining for Dummies.”

Clarke snorts. “Who’d _you_ piss off?”

Bellamy grins wryly. “Ex-girlfriend,” he says. “She said everything I touch turns to ash, and then proved it.”

“Ouch,” Monroe grimaces. Sort of. It probably looks weird on a cat.

“Yeah,” he nods.

Clarke has a sudden epiphany. “ _You’re_ why there are watermarks on all the books!” she accuses.

Bellamy sighs helplessly. “It was either that, or scorch marks,” he says. “I picked the lesser of two evils.”

“You’re _VulcanOne_?” Monroe asks. Bellamy nods. “But I thought this was _d3adgurl_ ’s house,” she frowns.

“Octavia,” he says. “My sister. That’s the real kicker.”

“She cursed you _and_ your sister?” Clarke asks. “What a bitch.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees pleasantly. “Total bitch. Wanna see the room?”

Clarke and Monroe share a look. “What room?” Clarke asks.

“The spare. You don’t want to rent it? I thought that was why you were here,” he frowns.

Clarke shoots Monroe a look that says _Absolutely not_ , right as Monroe sends one that says _We are definitely doing this._ They engage in a few moments of wordless warfare, before Clarke turns back to him and grits her teeth.

“Our landlady did say no pets,” she admits. Bellamy grins, and leads them upstairs while the floorboards buzz beneath them, sending vibrations up Monroe’s paws. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

A voice hums in her mind at the thought. _You’re not so bad, yourself_. Monroe nearly screams, and the walls around her seem to _chuckle_ , which is pretty fucking bizarre, but. Curses are weird.

They meet the rest of the group pretty quickly. After their first meeting face-to-face, they just decided it made sense to live together. There was plenty of space in the house—or _Lexa_ —and it was nice, having others around who knew what they were going through. Lincoln didn’t have to worry about terrifying them with his claws and fangs and horns, and Raven didn’t have to explain why she rolled around in a wheelchair, or why she had to speak with a modified smartphone. Finn didn’t have to feel guilty about his constant speed dating, or keep his wings bound back all the time. Octavia had a few more people to interact with, when she was half-awake. Miller didn’t have to worry about Craigslist roommates stealing the coins he sometimes lost in the sofa cushions or shower stall.

In the end, Bellamy was right; most of them had angered the wrong person—like Lincoln, who had evicted a particularly alcoholic warlock from the bar he bounced at, and Finn, who had a one night stand with some bitter witch.

Lincoln’s curse was fairly obvious, but Finn had bashfully explained his wings to the girls their first night.

“She said they’d match my flighty affections,” he says, running a hand over the feathers. One drifts to the ground, and Monroe bats at it aimlessly. “Until I finally find true love, or something.” He peeks at Clarke hopefully, but she’s busy flirting with the house by opening and closing its cabinets.

“Finn don’t fucking start,” calls the automated voice of Raven’s phone as she wheels into the kitchen. She glares at him. “They’re our new roommates—you _know_ better than to fuck that up.”

Finn looks appropriately shamed, mumbles an apology, and slinks upstairs. Raven rolls her eyes after him and then turns to the sisters with a raised brow. “Sorry about him—he doesn’t do well with boundaries. Or commitment. Or women. There’s not much he’s good at, to be honest, but what can you do?”

Clarke and Monroe shrug in response, because even through the indifferent tone of technology, they can sort of sense her bitterness, and they’re not really sure how to handle that. Raven seems to catch on, and grins thinly.

“Sorry about me, too, I guess. What are you guys doing for dinner? Tequila? Tequila? Tequila?”

“I could use some Tequila,” Clarke nods, and Monroe turns so fast she gets whiplash. She can’t remember the last time her sister has drunk anything harder than strawberry wine coolers, so she must be stressed, and Monroe can’t help feeling guilty. She’s pretty sure the whole cat-thing played a part in that.

“Me too,” Monroe chirps, and the girls turn to her.

“Can cats even get drunk?” Raven asks.

“One way to find out,” Monroe decides.

“You’re _nineteen_ ,” Clarke argues. Raven’s phone makes a scoffing noise.

“That’s like forty-three in cat years,” she argues. Monroe nods, and Clarke sighs, and pulls out three glasses.

Two shots in, Raven tells them about meeting Finn on some dating website, and begging her foster mom, Nigel, for a ticket to America so she could be with him. “She said, what will you do for me? And I stupidly said anything, so here we are.” She takes a third shot. “She thought it’d be funny—The Little Mermaid was my favorite story as a kid. And then I get here and it turns out he only wanted to see if I could break his curse. When I couldn’t, he moved on to the next girl, and I’m out a voice and both legs.”

Four shots in, Bellamy makes a cameo. He ruffles Raven’s hair affectionately, scratches Monroe’s back until she purrs—which is only a little awkward—and bickers with Clarke until they’re both red in the face. When he leaves, Clarke says “He’s an asshole,” while Raven and Monroe share knowing looks.

“It’s fucking weird that you’re a cat,” Raven declares. They’re probably seven shots in by now, but Monroe’s lost count. Apparently cats _can_ get drunk.

“I _know_ ,” Monroe agrees.

“You just,” Raven pauses. “You seem so _human_.”

“I _know_!”

Two shots later, and Raven and Clarke are huddled up on the couch, with Raven’s head in Clarke’s lap while she plays with her hair and recites all the bones in the human body. Monroe slinks along the wall, letting it take most of her weight as she stumbles. Apparently being feline has boosted her tolerance, but not by much.

 _What did you do_ , Lexa—Monroe’s pretty sure that’s where the voice is coming from, but she hasn’t asked—says. _To earn your curse?_

“I don’t know,” Monroe slurs. “I just wanted some cereal.” She vaguely recalls having a conversation with her reflection, but isn’t sure that’s important. “I did wish to be prettier,” she admits. “And just… _better._ ”

 _You are_ , Lexa says.

“You’re a very nice house,” Monroe decides, and curls up under a chair.

When she wakes up, she finds someone has left an open can of tuna for her. She eats it, and then grooms herself because no one’s watching, and then goes into the living room.

Clarke and Raven are still asleep on the couch, and there’s a third girl braiding Clarke’s hair. “She really does look like a princess,” the girl says, a little jealously. Monroe understands; she’s always been jealous of Clarke.

“I’m Octavia,” the girl offers. She looks a little see-through, which is only as weird as everything else about them. “I’m in a coma upstairs.”

“Monroe,” Monroe says. “I’m a cat.” Octavia raises a brow.

“I noticed.”

“I was just being polite,” Monroe bristles, and Octavia laughs—it’s a pretty sound, as pretty as the rest of her. She starts to fade around the edges.

“I’m almost never awake,” she says sadly. “When I am, we have to hang out. I hate when Raven does shots without me.” She’s still pouting when she disappears. Monroe stares at the empty space for a moment before hopping up on Clarke’s face. She steps on Raven’s a little in the process, but the girl only frowns and rolls over. Monroe puts a paw on each of Clarke’s cheeks.

“Wake up,” she says, and bites her sister’s nose.

Clarke stutters awake, and stares at Monroe in confusion. “Did you just _bite_ me?”

Monroe wisely ignores the question. “We need to get our stuff,” she says. “From the apartment.”

Clarke sighs heavily, yawns, and nods all in one fluid motion. She rolls Raven off, roughly, and stands. She leaves a note for them on the counter— _Went to get our stuff. Don’t give away our room while we’re gone, or solve any curses without us! Monroe says meow._

“I updated your Facebook for you,” Clarke mentions, handing Monroe her phone.

Monroe Griffin status update: Meow.

“You’re such a dick,” Monroe growls. Clarke laughs for the entire drive.

Monroe is sitting on the back of their couch, overseeing Clarke’s pack-up job, when their front door bursts open, and Jasper and Monty bumble in.

Monroe met Jasper in her least favorite Chem Lab, and Monty in her even _less_ favorite Bio Lab, and then the two turned out to be childhood best friends, and she managed to worm her way into a friendship with them over chili cheese fries and study dates.

Clarke is in her back bedroom when they crash in, so she doesn’t know, and is mid-sentence when she walks into the room.

“Monroe, where’d you put the—” she catches sight of the boys, looking suddenly bashful in the open doorway, and then glances surreptitiously at Monroe. Monty follows her gaze, catches sight of the cat, and beams.

“You got a cat!” he gushes, rushing over to her. He strokes her spine softly and coos, and she tries to be insulted, but mostly just purrs. It feels fucking good, alright?

“Er, yeah,” Clarke says, clearly panicking. “That’s why we’re, uh, moving. No pets.” She shrugs helplessly, and Monroe really wants to help, but there’s not much she can do in front of the boys, and also Monty is petting her with _two hands_ and it is seriously Nirvana.

“So where’s Monroe?” Jasper asks, looking around as if she’ll appear any moment.

“Work,” Clarke blurts awkwardly. She cringes, and Jasper looks confused.

“But you were talking to her,” he says.

“I meant the cat,” Clarke explains. “Cat-Monroe. Not Human-Monroe.”

“You named your cat after your sister?” Monty asks, clearly trying not to judge her. Clarke huffs.

“We’re getting a Clarke one soon,” she defends. “So what?”

“So nothing,” Jasper shakes his head and raises both hands in surrender. He’s always been a little scared of Clarke, ever since they were cramming for midterms in Monroe’s room, and making a little too much noise. Clarke had just come off a thirty-six hour shift, and had stormed in, hair flying and scrubs still bloodstained. She’d explained that since she didn’t have duct tape, she’d have to paralyze them by cutting different pressure points with a box cutter. _Why a box cutter_ , Jasper had asked, horrified. Clarke had fucking _grinned_ and said, _So it’ll hurt more._ It’s sort of something you can’t ever forget.

“Yeah,” Monty agrees, taking his hands back. Monroe tries not to feel bitter. “It’s cool—different. Original.”

“Very original,” Jasper nods. Clarke glares them both into submission.

“What are you two even doing here,” she demands. She likes to pretend she isn’t pleased to see them. Clarke has issues with showing affection, in that she tries not to.

“Monroe wasn’t at school today,” Monty explains, and Monroe shrinks guiltily under Clarke’s glare. She was supposed to call her university the day before, but had forgotten sometime around when the Tequila came out. “We wanted to check on her; she’s been sick a while.”

“You guys know I’m a doctor, right?” Clarke asks, amused. “She’s fine—just overloaded with school and work, and moving. She’ll be back soon. Now,” She tosses an empty box at Jasper, and tries not to laugh when he doesn’t catch it. “If you’re going to stay, you’re going to pack. Start with the bathroom.” She tosses a second box to Monty, who had time to prepare and so catches it easily. Jasper shoots him a glare.

The three of them pack up the girls’ Subaru in record time. They offer to help them move into the new place, but Clarke kindly-but-firmly turns them down. She’s good at that; Monroe would have caved within seconds.

In the end, it’s Miller and Bellamy that help them carry the boxes inside. Their apartment had come already furnished, so they had to leave the couch and table and beds behind, but some things—like Monroe’s prized lava lamp, and Clarke’s fucking _insane_ book collection—come with them. Clarke only shrugs away their lost deposit; she’s a _doctor_ —well, resident, but still. Money’s not exactly an issue.

Plus, their parents are sort of really rich. Not that it matters, but.

Clarke mentioned that to Raven around shot six, but the smartphone had just whistled indifferently before saying, “You’re buying the next bottle,” and that was that.

As it turns out, none of the tenants really worry about finances. Since the house isn’t technically a house, there’s no mortgage. They do have to pay for electricity and water, and the shared Netflix account. Bellamy also subscribes to the city newspaper, but since he and Raven are both gainfully employed, and Lincoln comes from a mysterious family fortune, and Miller just spits out a few gold coins (he knows a gold-to-cash shop runner named Indra who gives great rates and asks zero questions) whenever he needs to, it’s not like they need any extra income.

But Clarke and Monroe—well, Monroe, but Clarke sort of comes with the package—are their people, and they’re not going to turn down a doctor’s paycheck.

Monroe perches on the porch railing as Clarke warns Bellamy not to burn her precious books. He snaps, “Bite me, princess,” but they both look happy enough, so she figures it’s some sort of weird foreplay with them.

She asks Lexa—silently, of course, because as it turns out Lexa the House can also read minds, go figure—about herself. She answers bluntly enough, and so easily that Monroe figures not many people have bothered to ask her.

She’s from the nineteenth century, a Lady of prominent social standing, who fell in with a kitchen maid.

In the end, it was the maid or her family, so she turned the maid out. She turned out to be a witch, of course, and Lexa woke up as a house.

Her story is sad, probably sadder than the rest of them, and Monroe finds herself feeling hot around her nose and eyes, like she’s about to start crying.

 _Please don’t_ , Lexa muses. _I imagine it cannot be comfortable in your form._

 _You’re a house_ , Monroe thinks miserably. _You shouldn’t be so sarcastic. I’ll scratch all your nice floors._

 _I’ll lock you outside,_ Lexa says smoothly. _I’ll tell Octavia you pictured her naked._

Monroe flushes, but she doesn’t think it shows. She’s never been more grateful for her dark fur. _That’s not fair,_ she argues. _I thought that in confidence!_

 _Many things are unfair_ , Lexa argues. Monroe decides she’s infuriating, and she won’t speak with her ever again.

She is a cat, arguing with a house, about a girl who sometimes appears and disappears at random. This is her life now. It’s not really that bad.

She still wishes she were human, though. She’s getting a little bored with tuna.

 _Are you still mad with me?_ Lexa asks that night, just as Monroe is drifting to sleep on Lincoln’s chest. He’s warmer and broader than the rest of them, and his fur makes a nice nest. She’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind.

 _No,_ she decides, eyeing Clarke and Bellamy across the room. They’ve all somehow ended up in the living room, binge watching awful Disney channel original films, like she and Clarke used to do as kids.

Bellamy is taking up half the couch, legs sprawled out in front of him, while Clarke lies perpendicular, feet propped up in his lap. He’s absently massaging them, gloves safely wet, while she pretends it’s not a big deal.

Monroe isn’t sure when they stopped fake-hating each other, but she’s glad.

 _Good,_ Lexa decides. And then, _Your sister is very lovely._

Monroe feels a sudden pang of envy, and hates herself for it. She hears Lexa chuckle in her mind. Fantastic. She might have spoken too soon, on that hating front.

 _Don’t worry,_ Lexa soothes. _You’re still my favorite._

 _You’re a terrible house,_ Monroe thinks, because she’s pretty sure Lexa already knows the other thing. How much she wants to see her—human-her, not house-her—and that she’s her favorite, too.

Just before she goes unconscious, Octavia appears by Lincoln’s side. His chest rumbles as he whispers, “I’ve missed you—I was worried you would not wake.”

“I told you I would,” Octavia whispers back, reaching out to stroke one of Monroe’s ears. “Missed you too.”

When Monroe wakes, the room is mostly empty, and she’s been moved to the arm of the couch. On the other sofa, Clarke is curled up beside Bellamy, with a careful two inches between them. They think she’s still asleep, so she doesn’t move yet.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bellamy says softly.

“You won’t,” Clarke promises. “Just, can we just try? Just for a minute, and if it’s too much we’ll stop.” She sounds so hopeful, it takes everything Monroe has not to cry.

“Okay,” Bellamy whispers, and then there’s silence for a minute, and then the wet sound of kissing, and Monroe listens for another minute, hoping it’s not too creepy.

 _It’s a little creepy_ , Lexa teases.

 _Shut up,_ Monroe says. _You are the creepiest incorporeal house ever—you eavesdropped on my wet dream, you don’t get to call me creepy._

 _You’re not my favorite anymore_ , Lexa decides.

 _And I still hate you_ , Monroe shoots back, but by now Clarke and Bellamy are pretty much dry-humping five feet away, and that’s _definitely_ creepy, so she makes a big show of stretching and yawning and then giving her sister a few pointed looks before sauntering off.

 _Nice save,_ Lexa says. _Very subtle_.

 _I hope you get condemned_ , Monroe says, but there’s no real heat to it. Her sister is in love, and she’s in some sort of weird affectionate limbo with a sentient house, and she’s happy.

 _Me too,_ Lexa says warmly.

Wells shows up on their fifth day at the house. Lexa lets him in, because she knows it pisses Bellamy off, but then Lincoln unthinkingly crosses through the hallway, and he and Wells both pause to have some sort of awkward stare down, before Clarke and Monroe walk in.

Clarke is holding Bellamy’s gloved hand, though a few strands of her hair smell charred—they’re in that overly affectionate, stupidly in love phase and it’s _awful_. She’s spent every night in his room, and Monroe spends most of her time trying not to walk in on them, or imagine what they might be doing together.

 _Having sex_ , Lexa supplies helpfully. _I’ve seen them. It was hot._

 _I hate you,_ Monroe despairs, and it might really be true this time.

“Wells,” Clarke says, wide-eyed. And then, “What are you doing here?”

Wells, still staring at Lincoln, says “Your mom called me. She’s worried about you,” he looks at Monroe-the-cat, and she gets the immediate feeling he _knows_. “Monroe’s missed a lot of school. They sent her an e-mail.”

“She’s sick,” Clarke says automatically. Jasper and Monty have called a few times. The girls are used to the lie by now.

“Uh huh,” Wells agrees, completely unconvincingly. He’s still staring at Monroe.

“Someone mind telling me who the fuck is standing in my hallway?” Bellamy asks mildly. He’s been a lot nicer since he and Clarke have started _whatever_ they’re doing, but he’s still sort of an asshole.

“This is Wells,” Clarke says. “My best friend.”

Bellamy eyes her curiously. “I didn’t know you had friends,” he smirks.

Clarke glares and uses her free hand to hit his shoulder. “I have friends,” she argues.

“You have _a_ friend,” Monroe teases, and by the time she realizes her mistake, it’s too late.

Wells, impressively, doesn’t look at all shocked or disturbed—instead, he seems a little proud of himself. “I knew it,” he declares. “Monty said you got a cat and named it Monroe,” he shakes his head. “That’s weird even for you guys.”

“So your first thought was, _she must have been turned into a cat_?” Bellamy asks, mildly amused by the whole situation.

Wells shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not really,” Monroe says.

Wells fits surprisingly well with their little group. He takes in each of their curses with his usual scientific curiosity, and then he and Clarke spend the rest of the day pouring over textbooks and online databases, searching for information and cures. They decide since Bellamy’s is a Midas variant, they should try running saltwater. They make him hold his bare hands under the running faucet, while Clarke pours salt over them, but when he holds onto an old post-it for twenty seconds, it still catches on fire.

They think Lincoln might need to find true love, like Finn, and Monroe almost mentions Octavia, but stops herself at the last second. When they’re ready, they’ll tell everyone; it’s not her secret to share.

Finn, they decide, might be a lost cause. He’s recently hitchhiked to California, to meet with a woman from one of his dating sites. He’s been texting Lincoln and Raven intermittently so they know he’s not dead.

Raven, they think, might need to kiss a prince. Well, Clarke suggests she kiss a prince. Wells thinks she should just call her foster mother and ask, but Raven refuses.

“You’d understand if you knew her,” she explains. “And no way am I stabbing myself in the ocean. Fuck that. It’s probably a true love thing, anyway. I’ll find someone eventually.” Monroe can tell she doesn’t really believe it.

Raven leaves before Wells does—she works at a car garage, mostly working with the computers, but sometimes she manages to peek under the hoods or change a few batteries. She says she likes the simplicity of the engines, and she hates her manager Wick. But she works on commission, so the pay is worth it.

Eventually Wells leaves, promising to let Abby know her daughters are fine, and healthy, and figuring their shit out.

That last part is Bellamy’s suggestion. Wells says he’ll think about it, which really means no, because Wells is basically a diplomat.

 _I like him,_ Lexa decides afterwards. _He told me I have nice architecture_.

 _You do_ , Monroe agrees. _Very_ nice architecture.

 _I heard that,_ Lexa says, but she sounds fond, so Monroe just smiles.

Raven’s the first to break her curse, and none of them even realize until she strides inside one day and says loudly, “Who wants to take me out dancing for the first time in three years?” Clarke gasps and leaps up from the couch to run into her arms, and Raven laughs loudly.

“What’d you do with Siri?” Bellamy asks, grinning hugely.

“Ditched the bitch,” Raven says proudly. They go to a club—her, and Miller, and Bellamy, and Clarke. They calls Wells, so he goes too, and Clarke phones Jasper and Monty because they’ve been sort of neglecting them.

Monroe spends the night watching old Twilight Zone reruns with Lincoln and Octavia, until she feels like way too much of a third wheel, and goes upstairs to talk with Lexa.

 _I wish I could touch you_ , Monroe sighs sleepily.

 _You do,_ Lexa says.

 _I wish you could touch me,_ she amends. There’s a quiet stretch, and she thinks maybe Lexa hasn’t heard her.

 _Me too,_ Lexa sighs, and Monroe falls asleep to the sound.

In the morning, Clarke teases Miller about Monty, and Monroe’s a little bitter that she apparently missed that.

Clarke also teases Raven about Wick, who had shown up half an hour after them, and managed to lure her away from the dance floor to argue with him at the bar, and then kick his ass at Tequila Darts.

“He’s an imp,” Raven says, almost fondly.

“He’s an imp that’s in love with you,” Clarke declares. Raven rolls her eyes wildly.

“Wick doesn’t know how to feel human emotions,” she argues, but she’s blushing, so Clarke just grins smugly and lets it go. She’ll realize on her own, eventually.

She just shrugs when Monroe asks how she broke her curse. “It was a lesson in love, I guess,” Raven muses. “Loving myself. Or something equally stupid.”

Miller’s the second to be cured. “It had nothing to do with love,” he says, voice hoarse from months of disuse. “It just wore off eventually.” It’s strange to hear his voice—unlike Raven, Miller had never bothered trying to communicate.

Monroe tries not to feel bitter, watching her friends get fixed one by one, but it’s hard not to envy them. She’s tired of litter and tuna and the inability to open doors. She misses pizza and school and her friends and opposable thumbs and the internet.

Octavia and Lincoln’s cure is almost comically simple. A single kiss, and suddenly he’s clean-shaven and smooth-skinned, and she’s tangible and sitting up in her bed.

“How fucking fairy-tale is that?” Raven asks dryly, slapping Lincoln on the shoulder. Octavia hugs her brother for the first time in two years, and she’s crying when he holds her face in his hands, and Clarke goes to stop him because in the excitement he’s forgotten his gloves, but.

But there’s no burned skin, not even steam, and Bellamy’s eyes have cooled. “Running salt water,” he whispers with a grin, wiping at Octavia’s tears.

Clarke curls up with Monroe for the first time in weeks, and holds her close to her chest. It’s easier for them to fit on the same bed when she’s a cat.

“I love you,” Clarke whispers into the fur of her neck, and Monroe purrs.

“I know,” she says. “I love you too.”

“We’ll find a cure,” Clarke declares, so adamant that Monroe has to lick her face a little bit. It’s not _that_ weird—like kissing her cheek.

“I’m okay,” Monroe says, and she’s surprised to find it’s true. She has Clarke, and Bellamy and Raven and Octavia and Lincoln and Miller and Wells. She still has Jasper and Monty, and in a weird way Finn, and _Lexa_. She has her parents, who will love her no matter what, and she can do online classes if it comes down to it. She can be happy, here, like this. She is happy. She falls asleep in her sister’s arms, like when she was a child.

She wakes up in her sister’s arms, but she feels cramped and sweaty. She opens her eyes to find everything a little dimmer, and sits up.

“Oh my God,” Clarke says, eyes blinking up at her. Monroe glances down at herself—she’s naked, but that’s not why Clarke’s staring.

She’s human. Her hair is matted, and her eyebrows have grown back, and she has a million small scratches up her arms and legs and her mouth tastes like old fish, but.

She’s human, and she clutches Clarke as they cry and laugh at the same time.

“So what was it?” Wells asks later. They’re having a house-warming party for Clarke and Monroe, now that their non-cursed friends can see her again. A month and a half late, but.

She’s sitting on the front porch with Wells, cup of moonshine in hand—a housewarming gift from Monty and Jasper, and she’d expected Clarke to give her a stern look, but instead she’d just winked—watching the sun set.

“I think I learned a lesson in happiness,” she says. “And being careful what I wish for,” she laughs. She’d had Octavia shave her head in the upstairs bathroom, and she keeps absent mindedly rubbing the stubble. She’s keeping her eyebrows for now.

 _I think I liked you better as a cat,_ Lexa teases.

 _Bite me,_ Monroe thinks mildly.

“Think you’ll miss it?” Wells wonders, sipping at his beer, courtesy of Bellamy. They’re slowly forming a friendship on the foundation of a mutual love for ancient poetry and Canadian hockey.

“Nah,” Monroe decides. Lexa’s making the porch steps buzz beneath her thighs, pleasantly. “I’m okay like this.”

“Happily ever after?” Wells jokes.

Monroe grins. “Definitely.”


End file.
